


One Call Away

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: Sherlock had acrush?A bloody crush?Sherlock?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 157





	One Call Away

John was convinced the universe hated him today.

“So I’m heading out the door, right? But I’m carrying so many books that I don’t really see where I’m going, and right as I step outside, guess who I immediately run into?”

“Professor Faler?” Sherlock said, in the tone of voice that made it sound like a statement rather than a question.

John shut his mouth with a click and shot Sherlock a bit of an exasperated look. “I’ve told you this before—it’s a rhetorical question. You’re supposed to ask _Who.”_

“A rhetorical question merits no response at all,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Do you have to do this every time?” 

“My apologies,” Sherlock said lightly. “Let’s start again. So you were carrying your books…”

“Right,” John said, a smile tugging its way along his face. “And guess who I run into on my way out the door?”

Without pausing from their stroll down the campus trails, Sherlock turned to face John, his jaw open and eyebrows shot up high to the sky, bright opal eyes shining theatrically. “Who, John? _Do_ tell.”

John sighed. “Professor Faler.”

“How very unexpected,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, playfully knocking his shoulder against Sherlock’s. “Anyway, he spilled his coffee all over both of us. It was dreadful. At least I got a bit of redemption because I was carrying two textbooks for his class.”

Sherlock hummed. “I’d hardly worry. He considers you one of his favourite students.”

“And how’d you figure that?”

“He picks you whenever you raise your hand, even if someone else does it first. He smiles at you when you leave his class. He gave you a 90 on the last paper when it clearly deserved nothing higher than an 80.”

“Hey!” John protested, though not too heavily. He had finished that paper at four in the morning half-hungover. (Sherlock, of course, got a 97—the highest in the class and a goddamn miracle considering Faler was infamously-known for never handing out anything above a 95.)

John was about to retaliate with that one time Sherlock had gotten into trouble with the Dean when he broke into the chemistry labs trying to make caffeine pills and accidentally set off all the smoke alarm and sprinklers (creating an argument that subsequently led to Sherlock etching a copy of the keys to the chemistry labs and a contraband caffeine-pill business revolving throughout campus) when his recollection was suddenly interrupted by a harried-looking girl making her way towards the two of them. She had a camera hanging on one hip, its strap decorated in blue and pink chevron.

“Hi there!” she said. “Are you two busy right now?”

John glanced at Sherlock, whose eyes were slanted into curious slits and drilling into the girl like twin lasers. Despite that, she stood her ground and held it steady, and it gave John a flare of respect towards her.

“Not particularly,” he said. “Why?”

“I’m Emma,” she replied, her smile relaxing into something more natural as she shifted her attention to John. “I’m a third-year film major. I was wondering if you’d like to take part in a project? I’ll just ask you a few questions, it’ll be kind of an interactive thing. I’ll need you to speak and for you to be filmed, but I can leave your names out if you’d wish.”

“What kind of project?” Sherlock interjected before John could respond.

Emma canted her head. “Well, it won’t be as genuine if I tell you right now. I’d like to record it while asking, if you don’t mind. But if you change your mind at any time, I’ll delete all the footage right away.”

“Alright. Why not?” John said, curiosity piqued.

“Great!” Emma piped up. “Let’s move off the path to not block anyone else.”

As they walked, John wondered what he’d just gotten himself into. But he could never back down from a lure like that. It was one of his traits that got him into plenty of trouble, for sure.

One of which was standing right next to him. Sherlock Holmes was the first thing people had warned John about when he first entered the university, hushed words accompanied with side-eyes and a twist of the mouth that told Sherlock’s enigmatic and cold-as-ice attitude. Whatever you do, don’t try to make friends with him, they had said.

So obviously John needed to try to make friends with him, and now, nearly two years later, he couldn’t understand where the hell those people were getting their ideas from. Or maybe, alternatively, he fully understood where they were coming from, but there was something about himself specifically that, when others glanced off Sherlock’s personality as if burned, John was drawn like a moth to a flame.

Whichever was the correct answer, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Alright,” Emma said, jerking John from his thoughts. She was standing a few paces away, camera adjusted and pointed straight at the two of them. “Introduce yourselves, please—if you feel comfortable, that is.”

“Sure,” John said. “I’m John. Watson. Second year med.” He gestured loosely towards Sherlock, who was standing next to him. “This is Sherlock Holmes. Second year, undeclared, though I’m pretty sure he’s just stalling at this point. God knows he could ace any major he chooses. Maybe criminal defence, though, or something in chemistry. His brother went the law route already, and with the way he talks about Mycroft, I’m sure being alike is the last thing Sherlock wants. But then again—”

John cut off when he heard a giggle, faintly-hidden, coming from Emma. “What?” he said.

“Um, nothing,” Emma said, the same time Sherlock said, “She wanted you to introduce yourself, John, not give her my life story.”

“Oh,” John said, embarrassment like a hoard of fire ants crawling up the back of his neck. “Right. Sorry about that.”

(Jesus Christ. Get it together. Could he be more obvious?)

John coughed and nodded, trying to recover. “Well, um. There’s my introduction. Or, both of ours, I guess. Sorry.” He chanced a look at the other two, relieved to find Emma shrugging it off and Sherlock simply looking amused.

“Okay, then, John and Sherlock,” Emma said, her voice shifting back into something serious. “The question I want to ask you is: do you have a crush?”

Oh, _fuck,_ John thought. Of course that’s the one singular question Emma could’ve asked the two of them.

“Do you want both of us to answer the question?” Sherlock asked while John internally panicked.

“Hmm,” Emma said. “On second thought, this would go smoother if only one of you answered.”

Goddamnit, John thought with a sinking resignation in his gut. There was no way Sherlock, cool calm and collected Sherlock, analytical over emotional Sherlock, logic above heart Sherlock, would have a crush. Just the words _Sherlock_ and _crush_ seemed to clash like oil and water. 

It would have to be him, then, and John crossed his fingers and sent a silent prayer up to the heavens above that Emma would not prod and poke about the identity, because his answer was going to be _Yes, absolutely,_ and the follow-up to that would be _He’s standing right beside me, actually._

He steeled himself to speak.

“I’ll answer the question,” Sherlock said before John could talk. “Yes, I do.”

“What?” John said to the first part of Sherlock’s dialogue, and then, “Wait, _what?”_ when his mind caught up to the second half.

“Brilliant!” Emma chirped. “It’ll be you, then.”

“What?” John said for the third time when Sherlock simply nodded.

“Is that all?” Sherlock asked.

“Not quite,” Emma said. “You don’t need to tell me a name, but can you tell me why you have a crush on them?”

“He’s thoughtful,” Sherlock said. “He’s kind, and determined, and insurmountably loyal.”

Emma aww-ed right on cue. John was too busy having his entire viewpoint on the world ripped out from beneath his feet like someone had yanked the carpet of reality right off the floorboards. 

Sherlock had a _crush?_ A bloody crush? _Sherlock?_

(Through the disbelief and awe and shock, there was the bitter tang of irrational hurt. Because John had nursed and soothed his little torch for Sherlock with the comfort that, even if John couldn’t have him, no one else could. Except apparently that wasn’t even true now, and the shred of comfort was replaced with a simmer of _not good enough,_ sparks stuck in the dreaded Friendzone Alley.)

“That’s really sweet,” Emma cooed. “I can tell that you really do like him. When did you realize you had a crush on him?”

“A little over a year ago,” Sherlock said. “Sixteen months, to be exact. We were walking along the forest trails, and it started raining. He was wearing nothing but a t-shirt, so I gave him my coat. Then I realized that I didn’t want him to take it off.”

John turned his head to look at Sherlock, trying to hide the affronted expression that was pushing its way to the surface. That was _their_ trail, dammit! And when _they_ were walking along _their_ trail and it had started to rain, Sherlock had given _him_ that coat, too!

The feeling of the heavy wool laced with Sherlock’s scent surrounding him completely had coaxed up the heady beginnings of hope, which had gradually grown, though hidden, into a dancing, whirling bundle of helpless yearning, the burning strands of _what-if_ twined impossibly into his heart. 

And now, he was learning that it was all more impossible than he’d even originally thought. He was starting to regret agreeing to this.

“That’s so cute,” Emma said, oblivious to John’s emotional angst. “Now, for the next part of this film. You can decline if you really want, but I highly suggest that you follow through—especially after everything I’ve heard so far.”

She paused dramatically before continuing. “I want you to call your crush right now, and ask him out on a date.”

“Oh, Jesus,” John muttered before he could stop himself. He couldn’t be here for this. 

His ensuing turmoil only grew when he saw that Sherlock was actually going through with it, long fingers dipping into his pocket to retrieve his cell.

“You can’t be serious,” John said to Sherlock as he watched him thumb through his contacts, in a last-ditch attempt at hijacking. “You’re actually going to do it?”

“Why not?” Sherlock said.

“They might say no?” John offered.

“Then, it’s closure.”

“Why now, then? Why after so long? Over a year, you said? Sherlock, why did you never tell me?” John hissed, ugly twisted green threads woven into his words. “I thought I was your friend. What, you didn’t trust me to keep it a secret?”

“John, please,” Sherlock said, his voice holding a strange tension. “Not now.” 

John was about to retort when a clearing of the throat reminded him of Emma, who was still pointing the camera towards the two of them, red light blinking accusingly. Right, they were still on camera. 

“This conversation isn’t over,” John whispered.

Sherlock ignored him. He was shielding his phone from John, holding it angled away so that John couldn’t see the screen. Sherlock pressed a single button to call—because of course he had it saved in his contacts. John realized how much he was behaving like a stupid, vindictive teenager, but he didn’t particularly care at the moment.

Sherlock held the phone up to his ear. John held his breath. It was like watching a horror movie unfold, the silent seconds right before the jumpscare, feeling the urge to look away but being unable to tear his eyes away.

But the universe must have been having a _really_ bad day and decided to take it all out on John Watson, because right then and there, right at the worst possible time, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Fuck,” John mumbled, groping for his phone. Not even bothering to glance at who it was, he jabbed _Decline._

Sherlock waited for a moment longer, and then said, “They won’t pick up.”

“Try again?” Emma suggested. “Maybe they were busy.”

Sherlock redialed. John’s phone vibrated again. Goddamnit, was it that stupid telemarketer who wouldn’t leave him alone? He answers _one_ call, and all of a sudden he’s getting 1-800s like a stampede of overattached parents. Ones who were adamant that his nonexistent CIBC bank account has been compromised, and to please provide his credit card info to avoid additional losses.

Declined again. He didn’t even take it out of his pocket this time.

“Still nothing,” Sherlock said.

“Sounds like a bit of a dick, if you ask me,” John said under his breath, accidentally-on-purpose loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

Inexplicably, Sherlock smiled. “Maybe one more try,” he offered.

When John’s phone rang for the third time, he snapped.

“Give me a moment,” he said, shooting Emma and Sherlock a tight, barely-controlled smile that definitely was more of a grimace.

(Maybe he could ask Emma for that footage later. Maybe he could listen to Sherlock asking whoever that lucky fucker was out on a date, and imagine he was asking John instead.)

Stomping away from the two of them, John made sure he was far away enough that he was out of hearing range, and then yanked his phone out of his pocket before blindly punching _Accept._

He was already halfway through a sentence before the call beeped to indicate that they were connected.

“No, I don’t want a free cruise, I don’t need a new fridge, and I don’t even _use_ CIBC, seriously, do your goddamn research before you try to scam somebody and don’t give me that half-assed work. At least the emails get the bloody _company_ right. I’m sure you have a shred of humanity buried somewhere between all that dirty money, but you’ve really caught me at the worst time possible, so fuck you very much and don’t call me again. Ever.”

By the time John paused to take in a breath, his chest was heaving, but the weight on his shoulders felt subtly lighter. Who knew telling someone off was so cathartic?

A few seconds passed, with nothing to indicate that the other had hung up.

“Hello?” John finally approached.

Another pause, and then:

“Hello, John,” said a horrifyingly-familiar voice.

“What the _fuck?”_ John said. _“Sherlock?”_

“Yes,” Sherlock said. His voice sounded strange, like he was trying not to laugh.

John whirled around. Sherlock had his phone held up to his face. Emma waved. 

“What are you doing?” John said. “Why are you calling me? Did he reject you? I’ll kill him, I swear.”

“I’m calling you,” Sherlock said. “I was told to. I have not been rejected. That’s very noble of you, John, but for the sake of your own health I’d suggest you not to.”

“What?” John said.

A sigh, heavy and fond, into the speaker. “John,” Sherlock said, “sometimes I wonder how you can be so utterly dense.”

“Gee, thanks,” John said sarcastically, and his confusion ramped up another level when he saw Emma throw her head back and start to laugh. “Can you _please_ just tell me what’s going on?”

“John,” Sherlock said, “would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

John blinked, taken aback, and then he huffed into the phone. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “You paid last time, so I can take the bill today. But don’t change the subject.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock said, and he finally broke with a bluebell of laughter, faint and amused. “I called my crush. He just said yes.”

John stared at Sherlock from paces away, and then it clicked so hard and fast it felt like someone had just roundhouse-kicked him in the ribcage.

“I’m going to hang up now,” Sherlock said. “Emma got the footage she wanted. She’s leaving now.”

“Okay,” John said, so faintly he couldn’t even hear himself.

The dial tone matched the pitch of the ringing that had started up in his ear.

The two of them stood like that for a while longer before Sherlock made the first move, walking towards John and rapidly closing the distance between them.

“Really?” John asked, once they were close enough to hear.

Sherlock quirked up an eyebrow, stopping mere inches away. “What do you mean?”

“Me?” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Yes, John, _of course_ it’s you. There isn’t anyone else.”

“Good.” John exhaled, the surge of happiness bubbling inside him about to bowl him over if he didn’t find an outlet for it soon. “Now get over here, you idiot.”

“You’re calling _me_ an idiot?” Sherlock inquired.

John shook his head. “Okay, yeah, fine. I'm an idiot. A big, bumbling idiot.”

“And a bit of a dick, too,” Sherlock said, “if you ask me.”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” John said, and before Sherlock could reply he closed the space between them and shut him up good and proper.

God bless Emma, John thought as Sherlock demonstrated that, though he never did boast about his snogging skills, he certainly wasn’t lacking in the slightest. He might need to send her a fruit basket and a thank-you card later that week.

Maybe the universe was having a good day after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Needed a bit of fluff today. I hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments make me ridiculously happy. Thank you so much for reading, and stay safe <33


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